


I wrote you letters in the sand, love poems on the shore

by captainsarmband



Series: Meet me in our secret place (when the time has come) [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainsarmband/pseuds/captainsarmband
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers the night on the hotel balcony, high over the city, low on hope, and Martin's voice somewhere in between. And how he could so easily imagine reaching out to touch his skin, while now, standing right in front of him, it seems unthinkable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I wrote you letters in the sand, love poems on the shore

**Author's Note:**

> It wasn't intended to be a series, but then it wouldn't let me go.  
> This is a sequel to [Be Still](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1773793).

He stares intently at his hands that rummage through his sports bag for the umpteenth time without rational purpose. He's zipped it open and shut again. Opened it, took out his damp towel, folded it, stuffed it back in. Most of the others have left already, though they all took more time than usual, having stories to tell and photos to share, filling the locker room with the atmosphere of a classroom after summer. He feels a little bad for the new guys because Stevie isn't there and he is the one making people feel welcome and at ease and all Dan has to offer are well-timed tackles and encouraging half-smiles. But it's not like he isn't trying. He's still vice-captain (and that means more than he'd dare to say out loud) and managed to come up with a few claps on the back and _Let me know if you need anything_ s and even made Emre laugh with a half-hearted joke about having the same hairdresser.

"Missing something?" He is startled by the immediacy of the voice, feeling somewhat caught in the act, though the act only consists of flattening his towel and tugging at a loose thread. He zips his bag shut, turns around, a little faster than strictly necessary, and finds himself centimetres away from Martin's face.

He is more tanned than usual, looks a little more relaxed (though it's hard to tell really, with the sharp cheekbones and perpetually pursed lips).

"What?" he asks quietly and is suddenly very aware that Martin can probably feel the word as a breath on his skin.

"You keep searching your bag," Martin explains, motioning behind Daniel and in the briefest of moments he brushes his arm. It feels different from how it does on the pitch. Maybe because it doesn't serve a purpose. Maybe because it doesn't mean _move_ or _watch out_ or _well done_ , but he doesn't know what it does mean either. Before he can ponder it, Martin's arm is back at his own side and nothing means anything anyway and it's probably better that way. "So I asked if you were missing something."

"No." _Not anymore._

Martin gives him a bemused look and a half-shrug and Daniel realizes that despite their unnecessary proximity invading the personal space that they both hold dear, none of them have taken a step back. He remembers the night on the hotel balcony, high over the city, low on hope, and Martin's voice somewhere in between. And how he could so easily imagine reaching out to touch his skin, while now, standing right in front of him, it seems unthinkable. Daniel Agger is impulse and instinct. He doesn't know who he is now.

They just remain standing there for what seems like an eternity. And if it really is and he has forever to wait and ponder and weigh the risks, then maybe at some point he will muster up the courage. For what, he doesn't know, not yet, but he will figure that out, too.

"See you tomorrow then," Martin says unceremoniously, adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder and walks away. There is no such thing as infinity, especially not for those who are bound to waste it. And with every step that Martin takes towards the door and away from him, Daniel decides to let him go. With every move separating them a little further, he convinces himself that it doesn't hurt. (And it doesn't. Not like breaking a bone hurts and Daniel knows that feeling. Not like losing a game hurts and Daniel has had plenty of that. It's different somehow. And if it's not the pain he's known then maybe it's not pain at all.)

"Martin, wait!" he calls out and instantly knows that once he replays that conversation in his head, the tone of desperation in his voice will relentlessly haunt him.

The Slovak does a smooth half-turn on his wheels and settles to lean against the door frame. "What?" he asks and what could easily sound a little harsh coming from anyone else just sounds like - _Martin_. It's enough to make him open his bag one last time, and now it's with purpose. He covers the distance between them (it only takes five and a half steps. And while the last one is a little awkward and he doesn't know what to do with his hands, it doesn't feel so bad to move towards him. It doesn't feel like putting ice on your sprained ankle and it doesn't feel like winning. But it doesn't feel like watching him go either. And that's good enough.)

"I brought you something." He holds out his hand and has enough time to notice the dog-ears his frantic rummaging caused, before Martin hesitantly takes it from him.

"You _brought_ me a postcard?"

Dan shrugs. "Obviously."

"That's not really how it works."

"What?"

"You're supposed to put a stamp on it. And an address for that matter. And to, you know, _post_ it."

"I didn't know you were so hot for etiquette."

"It's a _post_ card." Daniel swears to God, if Martin says _post_ one more time he will punch him in the face. Cheekbones be damned.

"I didn't know your address." Martin just stares at him incredulously, apparently not even dignifying his excuse with a response. "I mean, I forgot your house number."

It's a blatant lie and they both know it. Daniel knows Martin's shoe size, the number of the plate he always orders at his favourite Mexican delivery, the millimetre setting he shaves his head with. He could tell his life in numbers, write an equation of Martin. Solve for X.

"I thought you were creative."

_X equals 37._

"Are you complaining?"

"It says 'Hi Martin'." _It says I'm thinking of you. I miss you. Please miss me, too._

"I know. I wrote that."

"That's all it says." _That's all I dared to write._

"Are you saying you don't want it?" he asks defensively. He was insecure about this. The second he bought the card. The minutes he stared at the cliché picture of the lighthouse and imagined Martin looking at it. The hours he sat over the white blank back side, worrying at his pen, thinking of words and unthinking them until his vocabulary was made up of words without meaning.

"I'm saying that's the most pathetic postcard I've ever seen," Martin says and looks down at it, smiles, almost fondly.

"That's something."

"That's something, alright." Martin runs a hand over his head, an unknown habit that Dan has seen him do in training earlier. Maybe it's because the stubble grew a little longer and his hand urges to get familiar with the touch of it. It's the smallest of change, but it's a new variable and Daniel feels something inside him falter. "Thank you."

 

It's only a couple of days later that Daniel opens his letterbox and flicks through the collection of brochures and bills and _something_. It's a night-time photo of the Pump House and Albert Dock. With the illuminated buildings, it could almost count as beautiful. He turns it around. There's no stamp. No address. Just one sentence scribbled askew.

 

_"Thank God you're back."_

 

 

 


End file.
